A Little Black
by Athan Raczynski
Summary: 'It strikes her as selfish; this man took down a dozen of terrorists to keep her alive, and she feels like complaining...'


_This probably won't be such a good idea in the morning, but I started typing a dozen different things in a silly attempt to write what I was looking for—my wedding vows, those are. How does this translate into that? I don't know..._

_And yes, it's yet another piece set after The Reichenbach Fall, but it's not set in the same universe as my other works._

* * *

**A Little Black**

* * *

She hears the news of his death and all she does is to laugh. She's probably the closer to the term _widow_ a man like him has, and yet she laughs nonstop at the world's stupidity, most intensely the day he finally shows up at her doorstep in Prague and begs—_asks_, if he's the one telling said story—for her help.

She doesn't even pack. Her handbag has been ready for ages with all she needs to flee, and the door closes with a sense of finality, never minding the muffled voices coming up from the television or the bedroom window left open.

They hardly talk in the way to Florence, though she feels his eyes on her more often than not. Once there, she takes a shower and sleeps naked—for which he promptly leaves the hotel room—and in the morning she's forced to wear the same faded-denim jeans and red blouse.

He reappears near noon, holding a brown paper bag with food only enough for one. She nibbles a piece of bread while he speaks, already barking orders and what not. In the end, he asks if he was clear enough and she nods. That's a dull plan. Brilliant, but awfully boring. She ends up doing as he says for two days, though, until the very end, when she takes the act of the pretending lover far away, slips her hand from his towards his waist and feels the tension of his muscles as she leans up to kiss him. He groans in annoyance for fifteen seconds—or so he says, she only counted up to two—then kisses her back with matching passion and desire.

Try as she might, she doesn't lose herself to the sensation—not entirely, at least, as any dominatrix of her former calibre would pry herself about. But then they separate at last and watches the dark gleam in his eyes evolving into a different one, as he takes notice in the absence of the man they were following.

So it's no real surprise he's angry—at himself or her, she cannot tell—and then he vanishes as well for hours, until he returns to their room. This time she's not naked, in some sort of penance for her actions; in said situation he doesn't avoid her eyes—not completely, that is—which is why it's not hard for her to look directly at his face and notice the forming bruise on top of his left cheekbone, or the blood that bathes his yellow t-shirt—not his, if the way he holds himself can serve as evidence. The man will be in Milan tomorrow morning; yet this will require another couple of days of casual observation.

In the morning, she takes another shower and dresses herself into the same set of clothes. It surprises her to some level; before she'd decided to stick her tongue into his, the plan had been to wait until the man had been rendered unthreatening before telling him she could not just do in the same garments anymore, or simply striding off to walk away with some clothes from any sort of boutique. It strikes her as selfish; this man took down a dozen of terrorists to keep her alive, and she feels like complaining about having a very limited wardrobe. Hence why she shuts her mouth…

Until he mentions it.

"You're beginning to stink."

One of her eyebrows arches out of its own volition. He's supposed to be a pragmatic one; how can he possibly think her wardrobe was not an issue, when he saw her abandoning her flat with a handbag the size of crisps bag—a medium one, in the best of cases? Did he actually believe it was bigger in the inside?

To her surprise, he throws himself into the bed shortly afterwards, snoring deeply even with daylight's intrusion. She waits a minute, two, before confirming her resolve. That is, sliding her hand into his back pocket and grabbing his wallet.

In Milan, even off the peg is high quality and the boutiques and the assistants know it. But she knows what she wants too and shakes off the suggestion that she tries this season's peplums. She's been wearing more colour since leaving Karachi, a subtle nod to the gift of life after her death was spared, but any girl that respects herself got to have a little black dress in her case.

"I want something a little more classic," she says in a tone of voice that states she has a credit card to back up her demand. The shop assistant stops being snooty, takes her to the changing area and brings her a wide selection. She looks through them, lets most of the pieces to hang in the racks—but only tries on The One. She looks at herself in the mirror, turning this way, that way, assessing.

She doesn't think about how this will fly with charming criminals or philandering wives or what covers she can use it for. She sees that it flatters her, that the cut does its work subtly. She likes the way she stands in it—and yet none of that settles down her decision more than that unique look in his eyes under the warm sun of Florence.

The credit card is good—Sherlock and she have a slightly different idea about what an emergency fund covers, but by the end of the month, she will have worn this dress, he will have admired her in it and one of them, or maybe both, will have taken it off. She smiles at the possibility.

"The signora will take it?" The assistant asks, knowing already the answer.

Irene nods. A woman needs her little black dress, after all.


End file.
